


Lily of the Valley

by gazeboarcade



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Autistic Geralt, Bisexual Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bisexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Blood and Violence, Buckle Up Buttercups, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Geralt Saves the Day, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier saves Geralt, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, The Witcher - Freeform, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Trans Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), all around a heartwarming tale, monster hunting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:21:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22688404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gazeboarcade/pseuds/gazeboarcade
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier stop in a quaint village for a contract reporting twelve men dead in a week. Even in Geralt's line of work, this is a lot. The plot thickens when he finds all twelve men willingly left their homes in the night only to be found dead by morning. Will Geralt be able to defeat the evil that vexes this town before another victim is claimed? Tune in to find out!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 31
Kudos: 139





	1. Of Whiskey And Alcoholics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier sings, Geralt sleuths.

Jaskier ordered a pint of ale from the barman and chose a table toward the front of the room to settle. The man smiled wryly. “More of a whiskey town, we are, but here you go,” He said, handing it to Jaskier. Jaskier took a cautious sip. Not the best he’d ever had, but not as bad as he expected. The room was so painfully quiet. It was only noon, yes, but this wasn’t enough to write off the energy. It was filled with a bunch of grim looking men and the occasional woman. Everyone was so sad. His fingers itched for his lute. Music… music would help. It might even make them smile. That would help; it had to.

Gilfred walked away from his post over to the table where Jaskier sat. “And who are you in all this?” He asked, gesturing to the open seat at his table.

“Please,” Jaskier said, gesturing to the seat. “You may call me Jaskier. I travel around with Geralt.” He sipped his ale. Gilfred nodded, gesturing to his lute.

“You play? Are you some kind of bard?”

“Yes, I do play, and you may call me a bard. I’m well known in many places.” He said with a grin, pulling his lute into his lap automatically. A bit braggy, he knew, but he worked hard to gain his reputation. He hesitated for a moment, fingers hovering above the strings of the instrument. As much as he wanted to bring some light to the room, he felt funny about disturbing the air of grief. Gilfred nodded.

“Room and board is on us for you, too. You, and your muse.”

“My muse?” Jasier raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you mean Geralt! Well, thank you.” His cheeks tinted pink.

“Well?” Gilfred leaned back. “Will you play us something then? Do you sing, too?”

“I do, yes, but--”

“The full package.” Gilfred chuckled weakly. “My boy, he had such a beautiful voice… won’t you play us something?” Jaskier swallowed nervously, taking another swig of his ale. “We’d all like to hear it, won’t we?” He said, directed at the whole room, as if he knew they were all listening in anyway. People turned, looking at Jaskier. Their faces whispered sadness, but their eyes were almost hopeful. The pressure was on.

Luckily, Jaskier thrived under this pressure. “Between you and I,” Gilfred said, “We could use a little joy.”

Jaskier smiled, standing up. “I heard this is a whiskey drinking town?” He said, looking around the room. A few weak smiles and nods were his response. One man raised a cup, nodding. “Wonderful! Well, then, you must know a little ditty called ‘Whiskey in the Jar,’ then, right?” Stiff shoulders seemed to relax slightly all around him.

“I do,” Said the man who raised his cup.

“Damn straight,” Added a woman to his left.

“How about we do that one, then?” He said, smiling and running his fingers over the chords of his lute to check if it was in tune. It was, as always. He cleared his throat.

_“As I was goin' over_

_The ol Kestrel Mountains_

_I saw Captain Farrell_

_And his money, he was countin'_

_I first produced my dagger_

_And then produced my--ah--witcher,”_

Jaskier chuckled for a moment, looking around the room. There were some mixed looks. Some people looked at him with raised eyebrows. Interested. A few people looked up through heavy brows, looking too tired to get involved. Jaskier threw in a little flair on his lute and kept singing.

_“I said,_

_‘Stand and deliver or the devil he may take ya’_

_I took all of his money_

_And it was a pretty copper I took all of his money,_

_Yeah, and I brought it home to Molly_

_She swore that she loved me,_

_No, never would she leave me_

_But the devil take that woman,_

_Yeah, for you know she tricked me easy_

_Musha rain dum a doo, dum a da_

_Whack for my daddy, oh_

_Whack for my daddy, oh_

_There's whiskey in the jar, oh!”_

Jaskier took another glance around the room. Those same people with raised brows were now nodding along, even smiling. Those who seemed too distant now were rising their own brows. A good sign.

_“Being drunk and weary I went to Molly's chamber_

_Takin' Molly with me_

_But I never knew the danger_

_For about six or maybe seven,_

_Yeah, in walked Captain Farrell_

_I jumped up, took out my dagger old_

_And I lunged at him like our Geralt!”_

Jaskier beamed, walking around the room as he continued playing. “Sing along this next part!” He said, before continuing.

_“Yeah, musha rain dum a doo, dum a da, ha, yeah_

_Whack for my daddy, oh_

_Whack for my daddy, oh_

_There's whiskey in the jar, oh_

_Yeah, whiskey, yo, whiskey_

_Oh, oh, yeah_

_Oh, oh, yeah.”_

People were clapping now, following along. Some were grinning themselves. This response was what fueled him, fueled his passion. Jaskier continued playing the song, adding in additional flourishes here and there.

_“Now some men like a fishin'_

_But some men like the fowlin'_

_Some men like to hear,_

_To hear battle cries roarin'_

_Me, I like sleepin',_

_'Specially in my Molly's chamber_

_But here I am in prison--”_

Jasker paused singing and looped the notes to give himself a break to speak. “Sing it with me, you know the words!”

_“Here I am with a ball and chain, yeah_

_Musha rain dum a doo, dum a da, heh, heh_

_Whack for my daddy, oh_

_Whack for my daddy, oh_

_There's whiskey in the jar, oh, yeah_

_Whiskey in the jar, oh!”_

The whole atmosphere changed, one of joy and unity. Arms over shoulders, smiles on faces, hands clapping. “Bring it home, everyone!” He said, playing them out and only singing along softly while they all sang along together.

_“Musha rain dum a doo, dum a da_

_Musha rain dum a doo, dum a da, hey_

_Musha rain dum a doo, dum a da_

_Musha rain dum a doo, dum a da, yeah!”_

The whole room cheered for Jaskier and for themselves. He spun his lute on it’s strap back to his back and clapped for them, too. He chuckled and sat back at his spot, taking a sip of ale. “Seems like they liked that, huh?” He said, smiling at Gilfred.

“What can I say, you got quite the way with words, don’t ya?” The room was now filled with chatter. Sadness was still evident in sloped shoulders, but Jaskier’s song seemed to snap them out of their grief, if even for a while.

“Oh, you’re too kind,” He answered. “You were right, they needed some cheer.”

“And you delivered! Hopefully your witcher can do the same.” Jaskier sighed.

“Listen, if there’s anything I know about Geralt, he’ll do whatever it takes to destroy what killed those men.” His words hung in the air for a few beats before Geralt eventually nodded.

“I sure hope so. Say, you got any about him?”

“Any what?”

“Songs! Ballads, or whatever you types call ‘em,” Gilfred said, smiling. Jaskier laughed.

“Oh, yeah, I’ve got a few.” He pulled his lute back to his lap. “Even wrote him a bit of a theme song, actually.”

“A theme song, huh? Play it!”

“Oh, I don’t know--” Was now the best time to work on Geralt’s image control? The room seemed to be lightening up. Even so, it doesn’t seem like the best time.

“How’s another song from Jaskier sound, everyone?” He said in a loud, hearty tone. People cheered in excitement. “Don’t we deserve to learn a thing or two about the man who’s to save us?”

Jaskier smiled. He couldn’t argue with that. “Alright, alright, you don’t have to tell me twice!”

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Gilfred cheered, clapping his hands together and leaning back to listen. Jaskier took a deep breath and opened his mouth to sing.

_“When a humble bard_

_Graced a ride along_

_With Geralt of Rivia_

_Along came this song…”_

*****

* * *

*****

One of Geralt’s favorite parts of working contracts was the investigation. He couldn't help but get a bit excited to find new pieces of the puzzle, high on the thrill that he would soon see the full picture. Some of his fellow witchers, he knew, detested the sleuthing. But not Geralt. He made his way to the first man he needed to speak to, Sabrem, with a bit of spring in his step. Before knocking on the door to his home, Geralt made sure to focus his expression into a neutral one. In times of tragedy, people reacted differently. Sabrem could be angry or desolate or broken. He took a breath and knocked three times. A small, mousy woman answered the door. Her eyes were ringed with red and her whole appearance seemed folded in on itself.

“Is this the Erikson home?” Geralt asked, out of formality. The woman sized him up, the mistrust in her eyes betraying her innocuous appearance.

“Yes. And what do you want, witcher?” She kept her eyes locked on him like a wild animal that knew it was cornered. This was different than the usual anti-witcher hostility. She must be scared, Geralt deduced. With that realization came several others. Elita Erikson refused to open the door all the way. She was speaking softly. Her cheek bone had a yellowish green bruise. A darker, reddish bruise could be seen on the wrist of the hand holding the door. It was shaped like fingers, fingers of a hand that squeezed hard enough to bruise. Sabrem likely beat her.

Geralt returned his yellow eyes back to meet hers. “I’m here about the contract. Can we talk about your son? Is there anything you noticed before--” He was cut off by a grizzly man’s voice, yelling from within the house.

“Hey! ‘Lita! Who the ploughin’ hell is at the door?” Elita’s eyes screwed shut and her shoulders bristled before she forced herself to relax, the whole expression coming and going within seconds.

She put on a sticky sweet voice and called over her shoulder. “A witcher’s on our stoop, here about Johnny,” She said. Geralt’s sensitive ears heard several lumbering steps from within and a meaty hand yanked the door open the rest of the way.

“You must be Sabrem.” Geralt focused on keeping his face blank, though his blood boiled at the sight of the man clapping his hand on his wife’s shoulder in an imitation of affection. Sabrem yanked her back from the door as he stepped back, too.

“Please, come in,” Sabrem said, voice filled with artificial hospitality. He reeked of a distillery, Geralt nodded. “He’s here to help get what got Johnny, ‘Lita. You should apologize for your disrespect.” Elita fixed her jaw and forced a smile.

“You’re right, Sab. I can be so foolish, witcher, please forgive me.”

“No need,” Geralt said, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. Sabrem let go of Elita roughly, walking to a table in the main room, grabbing a bottle and cup.

“Some ale, witcher?” Geralt resisted the urge to scowl at the man.

“Prefer not to drink on the job,” He said instead, crossing his arms over his chest. “Mind if I ask you a couple questions? About Johnny?” Sabrem poured himself a drink and took a heavy drag of it while Elita walked into the nearby kitchen and busied herself with some pot on the stove.

“Aye, ask away.” Sabrem sat heavily. “There’s not much to tell, though.”

“How do you mean?” Geralt tilted his head.

“Well, I just don’ know how much there’s to say ‘bout it. Johnny’s gone.”

“You sound awfully cavalier about it,” Geralt spat out, before he could stop himself.

“Are you telling me how to mourn my son, witcher?” Sabrem stood back up, walking up to Geralt, sloppy and drunk. He was taller than the witcher by a head, but Geralt refused to tilt his head back to look at the man. “Ain’t it witchers, affer all, who can’t even feel?” Sabrem laughed, low and cruel. Geralt thought for a moment about shoving the useless drunk back and showing him a thing or two about how this witcher feels when he stumbles upon a jackarse who lays a hand on women. He decided not to when from the kitchen he heard a quiet, choked sob. He glanced over Sabrem’s shoulder at Elita. Her back was to him, but her shoulders were shaking, wracked by quiet sobs.

Geralt stepped back, reluctantly. “We’re getting off track,” He said, voice monotone. He uncrossed his arms, rolling his knuckles in case the situation would get out of hand after all.

“Thought so.” Sabrem chuckled. “Still, don’ know what else there is to talk ‘bout. We all went to bed and Johnny must’ve wandered out into th’ night because we found him dead out by the woods b’hind the house in the morn.”

Geralt thought for a moment. “You’re sure he went to bed here that night?”

“Ol’ ‘Lita swears to me he did, but what do I know.” Sabrem paused. “Must’ve been something awful special t’ lore that waste of space out. He rarely leaves the house, just screws ‘round the kitchen helpin’ his mom chore. Wouldn’t even help in the veg’table garden. She held him too much when he was a babe, ask me.” Another squeak of a stifled sob could be heard from the kitchen and Geralt had to count to ten to keep from beating this man senseless.

“Somehow, you’ve managed to be useful after all.” Geralt smiled, wryly. The man slumped back into his chair.

“Oh, shut the ploughin’ hell up, you monster,” Sabrem said, empty and dismissive. He swirled his drink in his cup and glared up at Geralt. It damn near made Geralt sick to his stomach to be called a monster by someone like this. While there was still daylight, he knew he needed to meet with the other people the alderman had listed off. Geralt nodded and turned and headed out.

It was rude to leave without excusing himself, he knew, but he didn’t care. He scowled. Maybe he was a monster, he probably was, but at least he was a useful monster. He fixed things and killed monsters worse than himself. That had to count for something. Moving at a clip, Geralt made his way to the next house he needed to drop in to. Two doors down from the inn, Gilfred had said. Geralt blew off some steam on the way there. He laced a hand through the back of his hair and tugged on it lightly, running his hand through it. In his mind, he solidified a plan to go back later and take care of Sabrem. But for now, he had to calm himself down a bit. He made a conscious effort to take a deep breath and put his neutral mask back on. The last home was difficult in its own way, but this one needed its own special attention, too, as it was the one of the recently widowed Sahra Finch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a bit of an abrupt end, but the chapter was getting a bit long. Thank you to my friend @nonbinary-minecraft on tumblr and my bf for reading this. You can find me on tumblr @historytea ! The songs Jaskier sings in this chapter are Whiskey in the Jar (tweaked to fit the witcher 'verse) and the first bit of Toss a Coin to Your Witcher. The best version of Whiskey in the Jar in my opinion is by Seamus Kennedy. As always, con/crit is welcome.


	2. Of Inns and Exsanguination

Geralt and Jaskier had been weaving their way along the land for about a week. They’d been camping under the stars, their usual travel methods in between contracts. It had been a day or so since they had last even seen any sign of civilization. Then, they stumbled upon a small plot of land, a blip on the map. So, small you could ride for two minutes and be on the other side.

The Valley was a poorer town, Geralt noted. More of a village than a town, some may argue. Many homes seemed to be in shambles or close to it. The economy around here was kept alive by throwing the same small amount of money around town, for they were too far off the beaten path for outward trade. Despite this, there was plenty of beauty in the surrounding land. Jaskier’s optimistic eyes noticed this instead of the poverty Geralt had seen.

There was a beautiful valley filled with colorful wildflowers to the east side of town. A fresh water brook ran along the edge of town that provided enough fish to get by on. Sloping hills with green glass and wildflowers, dappled sunlight filtering through the occasional apple tree. Natural beauty wasn’t enough to stop Geralt, despite all of Jaskier’s attempts begging for just a day to look around. It was inspiring for his songs, he had tried to say.

Geralt originally planned to turn him down. They were meant to travel elsewhere and pass through The Valley. A contract on the messageboard caught Geralt’s eye as Roach trotted by it. The parchment for it seemed expensive and stuck out in comparison to the more shabby notices. Geralt hopped off of Roach to check it out. Jaskier looked over Geralt’s shoulder when he pulled the contract off the board, skimming it. “Ah, there’s always a catch, isn’t there?” He said, sighing. The contract was for anyone who could help, but preferably a witcher. Twelve townsfolk had been killed in the past week.

“You get your wish, we’re staying.” Geralt folded the contract and slipped it into his pocket. He walked back to Roach, grabbing her reigns and leading her to a post to tie her to among two other mares.

“Oh, of _course_. Big scary monster in the area, and we’re going to stay. Wonderful,” Jaskier complained. He looked at Geralt, hand on his hip. From the way Geralt’s brows were knitted together, he could tell that he wasn’t going to talk him out of this. He sighed again, in defeat. “Fine. But I’m staying indoors. No way I’m hanging out here where a horrendous creature could grab me up.” Geralt’s lips quirked up in a half smile.

“Contract says twelve young men. Sounds like you’re not their type.”

“Excuse me!” Jaskier gasped. “I’ll have you know, any ugly monster would be lucky to have me!” Geralt let a puff of air out his nose, half smile still in tact. His version of a laugh, more often than not. “And I am not old!”

“I’m going to meet the ealdorman. Ask him some questions.” Geralt turned around, heading toward a larger building in the middle of town. This was usually the best way to find the dealer of the contract. When he got closer, he could read the sign that hung above the door. Lily of the Valley Inn. Jaskier trailed behind.

“Shall I get us a room here?” Jaskier asked.

“Do what you want.” Geralt was walking with a purpose, so Jaskier had to speed walk and throw in the embarrassing occasional skip to keep up. Geralt pushed the door open. Geralt led the way up to a desk in the front of the room where a weary eyed man sized him up. All the eyes in the room were either staring directly at Geralt or sneaking indirect, sidelong glances.

“Here about the contract,” Geralt said to the man behind the counter.

“What else would a witcher be doing here?” The man raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. His tone came off as rather hostile.

“Do you want help or not?” Geralt crossed his own arms. Mirroring body language, showing the man how closed off he looked. He knew people detested his kind, but he had also been on enough contracts to know when hostility was only partly because of that and more so because the individuals detested having to reach out to a murdering machine for help. No one wanted to have to seek out the help of the Butcher of Blaviken. No one enjoyed reconciling that they couldn’t protect their own. Jaskier squinted at the man.

“He’s here to fix your problem, maybe you should lighten up a bit. My friend here gets rather grumpy.” The man sighed, uncrossing his arms and leaning on the desk. This action betrayed the sadness he tried to veil.

“Apologies. I’ve… not been right since our Henrik was taken.” He looked up at Geralt. “Name’s Gilfred Smitty. I own this here establishment.”

“Henrik. Is that your son?” Geralt watched Gilfred closely. The man bit his lip, dropping eye contact with Garalt. He sniffed and Geralt watched silently as the man’s lip trembled. Nothing worse than seeing a parent cry because they lost their child. Gilfred nodded.

“My boy, yes, he died four days ago.” A sob hitched in the man’s throat and he clamped a hand over his mouth and looked down. His shaggy hair covered his eyes, but that couldn’t hide the shake in his shoulders. Jaskier tilted his head and nodded, sympathy weaving its way through him.

“I’m sorry,” He said. Gilfred nodded, but didn’t look up. “I’m going to go get a drink,” Jaskier said quietly to Geralt, excusing himself. Best let him work his magic, Jaskier thought. Geralt unfolded his arms.

“Mhm,” He said quietly, letting Jaskier go.

“Listen,” Geralt said softly to the man. “I’m Geralt of Rivia. You already know I’m a witcher. Going off your contract, I’ll go as far as to say I’m what you need now. I’m going to help you.” He waited a few beats to let that sink in. “Understand?”

“Yes,” Gilfred finally said, dropping his hand and looking at Geralt again.

“Good. So, Henrik was your son,” He tried again.

“Aye, he was.” Gilfred swallowed hard. He was upset. It didn’t take a genius to sort that out. Geralt schooled schooled his expression into one of focus and drive. Action. Fixing the problem. This was how to help. That was his part in all this. “Left me and his mama behind.”

“Did you find a body?”

“Yes. Burned it three days ago, as is our custom here. Horrid sight. I’ve never seen anyone so pale, even in death. Our boy was white as a sheet and twice as see through.” The man choked up. Geralt let the man’s words hang in the air for a moment, thinking. Sounds like blood loss. Gilfred dragged a sleeve over his eyes, wiping away some tears. Geralt shifted his weight, uncomfortable with the raw pain in front of him, unsure where to put his hands. He just wanted to help.

Contrary to the myth he was a heartless bastard, Geralt didn’t like seeing people so upset. He knew that a shoulder to cry on wasn’t what people wanted from him. They wanted results. “Who else can I talk to about this?” He finally asked.

“Um, well, let’s see. Well, there were twelve. You can go to our vegetable farmer, Sabrem Erikson. Him and his wife, Elita, lost their son. Or, um, there’s old lady Romana. She’s a bit out there, but she lost her boy, Dorsey. She misses him just the same, I bet. Then there’s Sahra Finch two doors down… She lost her husband.” The man straightened up, squaring his shoulders. He looked at Geralt like one looks at a weapon: knowing it’s danger, weary of it, but also relying on it to be lethal.

“Mhm.”

“And then there’s the matter of your payment. All the families that lost a son, hell, the whole town pitched in to help.” Gilfred explained. “We lost our son, but others lost their friends, their lovers, their husbands… So on. I’ll see to it you’re paid when the job’s done. For now, free room and board, on me and mine.”

“Understood,” Geralt said. He turned toward the exit. When it came to really tragic cases like this, he hated to ask for money in return. He had to though. Not every village was so kind as to open their inn to a filthy witcher and his bard.

“Wait a moment, witcher!” Geralt stopped, but didn’t turn back. “You kill whatever took our boys, you hear me?”

He nodded his head once and his slightly wavy hair bounced on his shoulders and the witcher headed out into the midday sun.


	3. Of Patience and Sweet Bread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told ya'll more was coming!

Geralt carefully inhaled the sweet spring breeze on his way to the next home, making an effort to control his breathing.This house was nicer than the last, he noted. It wasn’t made of finer wood, or anything like that, but there were little paintings all around the front that faced the main road. The door in particular was covered in paintings of flowers, red hearts, and birds one sees in the spring, not unlike those you may see on a day like this. Geralt took a moment to get his steely resolve in place before knocking. Once, twice, three times. Enough to be sure he was heard, not enough to be obnoxious. 

He looked at the ivy climbing up the wall next to the door briefly before the door was pulled open halfway, and a young woman poked her head out. Geralt took a half step back, almost like he didn’t want to startle her. He didn’t. Situations like this… required delicacy. They required hushed tones and slow movements. Nothing that would make it worse, nothing that would cause more pain. Geralt took in the appearance of the young woman. She was beautiful. Blonde ringlets, blue eyes, and a peppering of freckles on her cheekbones. But her eyes were rimmed red with deep dark circles beneath them. Her shoulders were hunched in defeat. She was evidently grieving. 

“What do you want?” She said, a bit of bite in her voice. Geralt straightened up. 

“Sahra Finch?” 

“Yes? And why does a witcher know my name?” She scowled at him, holding the door closer. 

“I’m here about your husband.” He watched closely. She signed, looking down. Her blonde curls fell like a curtain over her face. 

“Yes, of course… why else?” She sighed before looking back up, locking her jaw and pulling the door open. “Please, um, come in.” Sahra stepped back, walking into the house with her arms crossed over her chest. Geralt stepped in. “Close the door on your way in.” He did so. Slowly, gingerly, she walked to the table in the middle of the front room, falling into a chair. She dusted a hand across her lap, some flour billowing off in a cloud. Geralt noted three fresh loaves of bread on the table, one cut into a few slices. 

She leaned her head into her hands. “What would my mother think of me, letting a witcher into my house? A jinx. As if I need the bad luck...” She said quietly, seemingly asking herself. Geralt didn’t acknowledge it, intentionally trying not to pay it mind. 

“I have a couple questions about your husband.” He cleared his throat. “About his death.” Sahra glanced to the side, refusing to look at him. She gestured to the bread on the table. 

“Help yourself. I made too much.” She looked back at him, eyes filled with pain. “I usually work at the bakery, you see, but I haven’t been back to the shop yet because of… Terrance.” Sahra swallowed hard. 

“Thank you.” Geralt normally wouldn’t, but he hadn’t eaten in a while, and if this was an olive branch she was offering, who was he to deny a grieving woman. He gently picked up a piece. Clearly, she was going to be a bit hard to get talking about the information that mattered. He broke off a peace and subtly sniffed it before biting into it. It smelled just a bit sweet and tasted the same. It was rather good. He chewed the rest of his bite before swallowing. “Best bread I have had in quite some time, Mrs. Finch.” 

The woman smiled shakily. She had this way about her, like she was constantly on the verge of bursting into tears. “Sahra, please. And thank you, witcher.” The room was silent for a few minutes. Sahra was gazing out the window. One of the same, small birds she had painted on her door was perched on the window sill. She sighed again. Geralt understood. He sighed a lot, too. He knew what caused it-- some terrible weight on one’s shoulders. Sahra smiled lightly at the bird before looking back to Geralt, just as he finished off the slice of bread she had given him. 

“Did you notice the paintings on the way in?” She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “Terry and I… we painted them together.” Her eyes briefly welled up with tears. 

Geralt nodded. “I did.” 

“I miss him so much.” Geralt didn’t know what to say to comfort her, but he found himself wishing he did. Best to stick to what one knows best, he figured. 

“I’ve talked to others who lost someone,” He began. 

She wiped a sleeve under her nose, dabbing at her eyes. “I’m sorry. I know you witchers don’t understand… how I feel.” She sighed once more. “You’re better for it. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone… I’m sorry to interrupt. Go on.” 

Geralt shifted in his seat, leaning back. “Do you recall anything strange, before Terrance was killed?” He asked, staying on task. 

“Anything… strange? You mean, other than finding him propped against a tree in the yard, bled out?” She frowned. “You mean, other than there being no trail of blood? Other than his blood having… vanished?” She huffed out a shaky breath, bordering on hysterical. “I’m sure Gilfred already told you about that. Is that not strange enough?” She stared him down, their eyes locked. Hers were brimming with tears, but they were fiery. Perhaps she really didn’t know anything else. 

“It’s not ordinary, for you, I understand. And yes, I did already know that.” He paused for a moment, not losing patience. This was different from the rage of the drunk’s house he had stormed out of. Her anger was raw, that of someone freshly cut open. Cruelty to someone in this state… you might as well twist the blade in their wound. 

“Damned right it’s not normal for me.” He let her words hang in the air for a beat or two.

“Try to remember,” Geralt implored. “Anything out of the ordinary? Something small, something odd you noticed in the days before his death?” Sahra blinked quickly, looking to the floor. Her eyebrows knitted together. “Strange tracks in your yard, a strange smell in the air? Anything?” 

“Hmm… nothing like that, I’m afraid.” She looked back at him. “I’m sorry, witcher, I have nothing. I can’t help you figure out what’s done this to my husband.” She choked up, pressing her hand over her lips. 

“It’s alright.” He stood up, walking around to her side of the table. He put a hand on her shoulder, carefully. “I promise, I will take care of this.” He squeezed her shoulder lightly as she looked up, pale blue eyes meeting his golden irises. 

She smiled. Watery and shaky, but a smile nonetheless. “I believe you.”

Geralt let his hand slip off her shoulder. “Gotta keep moving. Burning daylight and I need to talk to some other people,” He said, stepping back.

“I understand, witcher.” Her words hung in the air for a moment. “Oh, I have an idea!” She got up quickly, half running to a counter on the other side of the room, grabbing some cloth and a ribbon. Sahra came back to the table and gently picked a loaf of the fresh bread, placing it on the cloth and gently covering it. She tied the cloth in place with the ribbon, making an elaborate bow in just a second. “You’re put up at the inn, right? I’ll take this over there for you--”

“You don’t have to--”

“Nonsense!” She glared up at him. She was a good two feet shorter than him, but her gaze was so ruthless he couldn’t find the power to defy it. Then again, he had never been really good at standing up to fiery women. “I will leave it with Gilfred for you. Let me say thank you in the way I can, witcher.” Sahra gently placed the bread in a basket, looping her arm through the handle. 

Geralt relented and nodded. Sahra nodded back, satisfied. Just after Geralt turned to be on his way, Sahra hummed. He stopped, glancing over his shoulder. “Witcher?” She said, quietly humming a little seven note song, mellow and sad sounding. He turned around. “There was something, I remember Terry doing, but I don’t know if it’ll be any help…” 

“What was it?” He asked. 

“That song.” She hummed the same seven notes again. “He kept humming it. Over and over again. From sunup to way after sun down… I would wake up in the night to see him awake, humming it.” Geralt raised an eyebrow. “He said he couldn’t get it out of his head… Does that make any sense? Does it, you know, help?” She shifted her weight, looking at him with searching eyes that begged for answers. The desperation was palpable, almost too much for Geralt. 

He thought for a moment. “It might. Thank you.” He wanted to say the song was benign, likely just something he picked up from a traveling bard, not unlike Jaskier. But the sadness of it combined with her intensity… well, that was enough of a reason to at least keep it in mind. 

“And witcher?”

“Hmm?” 

“When you find whatever did this to Terry… Destroy it,” Sahra said, tone steady and errily dark. He understood. 

“I promised, Sahra. I don’t make it a habit to break promises,” He said quietly, pushing the door open and dipping out into the late afternoon sun. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to take this moment to thank everyone for reading and commenting. Your kindness inspires me! I answer every comment, so feel free to share your thoughts. I hope you're all staying safe and well in this time! I will be working on another chapter this weekend! Thanks again <3


	4. Of Berbercane Fruit and Bite Marks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is going to be a bit longer than the last! Also... mild trigger warning for descriptions of a dead body. It's pretty mild, but I figured I should put up a warning anyways! Also, you'll note the intermission "chapter three" I put up announcing I needed a break because I was moving. Your sweet comments meant a lot to me but I wanted the chapters to be accurately labeled. Without further ado, Chapter 4!

Geralt found himself secretly intrigued, wondering why Gilfred felt the need to make note of the next woman he had to see for being peculiar. With towns like these, it could be anything from being the only ginger to full blown sorcery. Geralt suspected it may be a little closer to the latter, given that the woman lived on the edge of town. It was a bit of walking to get there, but not nearly enough to get Roach for. After all, the weather was fair and the sun was only just beginning to slip down the sky, typical of a mid afternoon spring. Once arriving at the run down house on the edge of town, he took in his surroundings. There were multiple garden beds filled with herbs, lending more evidence to his suspicions of sorcery. The extent of it, however, may not go very far. Women who dabbled in heavier magics were usually outcast a little further than just a few paces off the beaten path. 

He noted the sound of a chicken coop around the back of the house where, if he craned his neck, he could see an even more elaborate garden. Pots of miscellaneous flowers stood at the foot of the beds in the garden. One held a bushel of white-myrtle, a flower similar to a common daisy, whose petals were useful in potions. A row of decorative black-eyed susans stood along the back of the house where ivy and honeysuckle climbed up the wall. Of the three garden beds, one bore pea plants, cucumber, beets, and carrots along with a berry bush with a common berry used by witches in full bloom. The front door was boarded shut. One may suspect that no one lived here anymore, but Geralt knew better. Someone had to be taking care of all these plants. Plus, he noted, there were fresh, barefoot tracks leading to the back yard. 

On his own muted footsteps, Geralt silently followed them. Sure enough, there was a backdoor that was not boarded up in the yard. The sweet smell of honeysuckle and thyme hung in the air. He glanced over at a chicken coop, the door open so the birds may wander in and out as they please. Fresh feed on the ground. Someone had definitely been here recently. Geralt walked to a bed of herbs, the middle of three beds. It was filled with plants you would not expect to find in the same bed, let alone the same run down village. There were herbs he had only seen in Ard’Skellig along with those he could only find in the fields outside Novigrad growing beside one another. Celandine for pain relief, fool’s parsley which you typically only find in swamps, and wolfsbane, a common ingredient in alchemy. The third bed was the same case... Either this woman was well traveled, or knew someone who was. It was also abundantly clear she was rather experienced, going off the plants she was growing. 

Someone cleared their throat behind him. 

“And just  _ what  _ took you so long to get here?” Geralt stood up suddenly, turning on his heel to see who had - somehow- managed to sneak up on a witcher. He narrowed his eyes curiously, and had to look down to see who was approaching. A short woman, who’s head barely reached his chest, was looking up at him, eyebrows raised. She was older, maybe mid-50s. She had long, curly brown hair pulled in a loose braid over her shoulder. She was soft looking, with extra weight and maternal hips. Her clothes were worn, patched in multiple areas. A twig snapped behind him, and he quickly half-turned to see what had caused it. He was not determined to be caught on his ass twice. 

A younger woman, taller and much more slender stood behind him, a heavy shovel held like a weapon, glaring at him. Despite her height and size, she had the same head of curls as the woman he assumed was her mother, who must be Romana. “Hey, now,” Geralt said. “No need for things to get ugly.”

The short woman sighed. “For the love of Freya, put down that shovel, Fionna.” The girl squinted at Geralt, but lowered the shovel. Geralt looked toward Romana. “This is the White Wolf I told you about,” She declared, gesturing to him. 

“The one you dreamed about? I should've known. Looks like someone ran a comb covered in flour through his hair.” She smiled playfully, and Geralt knew her words didn’t come from a place of malice. 

“I’m Geralt,” Geralt stepped back so he could better see both women. “Of Rivia. A witcher,” He added. He had been caught off guard twice. 

“Relax, dear Geralt. We know why you’re here. Please, come sit.” Romana led the way to a small table in the garden with a stool on either side. “Fionna, go start a pot of peppermint tea, will you?” Her daughter nodded. Geralt watched as she picked several leaves off a mint bush and headed inside. Romana dusted off the stool for him and tapped it, inviting him to sit with her. He did so. 

“You dreamt of a white wolf?” He asked. “You practice Oneiromancy, dream divination?” Romana smiled, crooked. Somehow, even when smiling, she looked a bit sad. Geralt felt a tug of wanting in his chest-- wanting to remove the grief from haunting her smiles. But he knew better. Once grief lurks behind someone’s eyes, the only cure for it is time. Even so, he still wanted to help. He didn’t say this, he just set his jaw and got comfortable in the oak wood stool. 

“Ah, I dabble. I’ve never been as good at it as my babies.” Again, a shaky smile. Her voice had a lilt to it, a familiar accent. 

“Do you hail from Skellige?” 

“Aye, we do. Came here after getting pregnant with Fionna, Dorsey in tow. Their father died years ago, you see, so it was just us,” She explained. Geralt nodded. First her husband, now her son. It was a lot for one person to endure. He let her words hang in the air. “You’re here about Dorsey, aren’t you?” He nodded. 

The sun glared in Geralt’s eyes over Romana’s shoulder. He squinted in irritation. He never could seem to remember that he could intentionally narrow his pupils to block it out, not at first anyway. He did so. “Is there anything you can tell me about the days leading up to his death? Anything odd?” 

“Well… things were a wee bit odd. He was having strange dreams. You see, when it comes to dream divination, strange dreams are types of omens, so to speak.” She swallowed, shifting in her seat. “Dorsey, my boy… he practiced lucid dreaming. He usually did that most nights, concocting stories for himself or glancing into the lives of townsfolk who came to him for advice for their problems. Dorsey had a way with figuring out both sides of a story. A bickering couple would come to him, and he knew exactly how to solve their problems. A real healer.” Her eyes were filled with sorrow, but she did not cry like the other’s he had seen. 

“And so, you see-” Fionna set two small beaten ceramic cups in front of them before turning to head back inside. “Thank you Fionna.” Geralt thanked her. “She has been my rock through all this. As I was saying… Dorsey worked with lucid dreaming. But in the nights leading up to his death, he was having dreams he didn’t choose. He dreamt at first of black nothingness and a song.” Geralt raised his eyebrows. 

“Did it sound, ah, like this?” He attempted to hum the song Sahra had told him of. His voice was gravelly and just a bit off key. The piece of a song was disturbing and nearly made Geralt shiver. Romana nodded, frowning like she smelled something awful. 

“Yes, exactly like that.” She smiled. 

“What else did he dream of?” 

“He dreamt of a woman. He had no idea who she was. He said she had long, silky hair. Dark as the night sky, it was. It covered her face. He said she was lily white, too.” Fionna returned with a kettle, pouring a pale green tea into their cups and returned inside again. Romana shook her head, picking up her cup and blowing gently on the tea. Geralt did the same with his cup. After taking a gentle sip, she wet her lips and looked back to Geralt. “He said she was singing that song you hummed. But he couldn’t see her lips moving.”

“He said he felt… drawn to her. Like she fancied him, or something of the like. Every dream with her warped into a nightmare. He thought it meant she was in trouble, he needed to go to her. He wanted to find her. Every day, he would go out until sunset, wandering the wood to see if he could find her.” Romana fidgeted with her braid. “On the third day, I must admit I began to doubt. Dorsey’s dreams were rarely wrong, but you’d think he’d have found her if she was, well, real, right? I feel so guilty. It was that night he was killed. Killed in the woods on the edge of town.” That was a good distance from the woman’s house. 

“How’d you know where to look?” Geralt asked. 

“You may not believe this, witcher. But who am I to decide that, you’ve surely had more than your fair share of run ins with the strange and unusual, who am I?” She asked. Geralt wasn’t sure if he was asking him or herself. Thankfully, she continued. “Before my rooster could even wake us up, Fionna and I both woke. We bumped into each other in the hallway, she had been rushing to my room and I to hers.” 

“Did you have a dream?”

“Fionna did. She dreamed of a path, watching her feet run down it, into the wood. I… I had woken up feeling like I was choking. I… I knew. I knew something terrible had happened, in the way mothers just  _ know _ .” She sighed. “Fionna and I followed the path she dreamt of… We found him in the woods, by the grotto. I couldn’t stop screaming. Must’ve woken half the town up before Fionna could quiet me down.” Romana smiled, shifting in her seat. She seemed uncomfortable, maybe even embarrassed. 

Geralt listened intently and sipped his own tea. It was minty with just a bit of sweetness to it, as if Fionna had boiled honey into it while the tea brewed. It was nice. Refreshing. Romana sighed. “I used to work as a midwife, back in Skellige. I was good at it, too. I listened to my intuition and I knew my way around medicines and cures. They called me a druid, a hedge witch, a sorceress.” She sipped her tea. “But it didn’t matter who I was, I was good at my job. Even so, nature happens to take course when it wants to. My point, Geralt, is that I’ve seen death. I’ve seen babes unable to make it, mother’s just the same. But I have never,  _ ever  _ seen anything quite like Dorsey…” 

She swallowed hard, sipping her tea again. She returned the tea cup to the table, and held onto it with her hands. For a moment, it seemed that cup was her only tether to the present, the only thing keeping her from falling apart. Geralt nodded. “He seemed to have bled out, right?”

Romana looked up at him. “Well, I can show you.” 

“Show me?”

“He only died two days ago. We’ve still been gathering wood for his funeral pyre.” She smiled shakily. 

“If I’m not...intruding, it would be helpful to see the body. I have my suspicions on what we may be dealing with.” Geralt finished off his tea, setting his cup on the table and leaning back. 

“Of course. Follow me.” Romana stood up. Geralt did the same and followed her into her small home. The windows were stained glass, so the afternoon light cast beautiful colors around the dim interior. Herbs hung to dry from the walls, small bottles and containers cluttered a good deal of table space. “Don’t mind the mess, witcher. What you see before you is the same medicine that keeps the town we live in well, day to day. Everything from salves for poison ivy to syrup for coughs.”Geralt hummed in understanding, following her to a small bedroom. 

“This is my room,” Romana said. Geralt followed her in. Fionna appeared in the doorway, leaning on the frame. Her eyes were filled with the same sadness as her mother’s, but they were not rimmed with red. “I keep him in here with me. Morbid, aye, but I will be returning my boy to the earth tomorrow. With all the healing he has done, he will surely find his place in Folkvangr with our lady Freya.” She gently laid her hand on the chest of the shrouded figure of her son, laid out on the table. Without looking over to her daughter, she said, “Fionna, go get the cups from outside and scrub them, please?” 

“Yes, Ma.” Fionna hesitated for a moment before leaving. Despite the brief pause she gave, she seemed glad to have a reason not to stay. This sort of thing is typical of someone her age, waffling between the grimdark truth of death and the innocence of youth. 

“It terrifies her, seeing him like this. I want her memories of her brother to be of him when he was full of life, Geralt.” He nodded, understanding. “Come closer now.” He did so and watched her gently pull back the white shroud that covered him. He was pale, definitively exsanguinated. Geralt looked over the body. He was grown, maybe a bit younger than Jaskier. The mop of brown hair on his head nearly gave an eerie resemblance to the bard. Geralt swallowed hard, looking the body up and down. 

“Does he have any injuries?” 

“Not that I saw…” Even so, the faint coppery smell of blood met the witcher's nose. 

“May I touch him? Just to make sure.” Romana nodded. With feather light touch, Geralt pushed up the sleeves of the shirt Dorsey wore, looking for any abrasions. Nothing. Under the shirt? Nothing. Geralt noted a small stain on the knee length shorts Dorsey wore. Deep brown. Like dirt or… dried blood. Geralt carefully pulled Dorsey’s sleeves back down and straightened his shirt out before carefully rolling up his shorts. Then, he saw it. Plain as day, a bite mark. About six inches above the knee. Romana gasped, hand covering her mouth. 

“Gods! Is that-- Human?” Geralt looked closer. To the casual onlooker, it was clear it wasn’t an animal bite. But it wasn’t quite human either. Dorsey had been bled out so profusely it was barely even bloodied. It was where Dorsey’s femoral artery should be. The tear to the flesh, the depth… It confirmed his suspicions of a vampiric monster. This, combined with the song, the dreams… Geralt was near certain he knew what it was. 

“Damn it.” He sighed, pulling the clothes back into place. He stepped back and Romana took this as her cue and stepped forward to pull the shroud back over her son. 

“What is it, witcher? Do you know--” Before she could finish, Fionna interrupted her. 

“Ma?” Her voice sounded small, terrified, and just a bit disgusted. 

“Fionna, not right now--” 

“Ma, look.” Geralt and Romana looked to the young woman, confused. She was holding something long and black. Geralt stepped closer. It was hair. A chunk of hair. “I found this in the thorn bush under Dorsey and I’s window while I was getting the cups… I think it’s hair.” No one in the family had this kind of hair. Silky. Long. Black as tar. 

Geralt frowned. His suspicions were confirmed. “Romana, I know what’s been doing all this. I know what killed your son.” He turned to her. “A bruxa. Bruxae are vampiric creatures who drink the blood of men. They lure men in with their sexuality and promises of eternal love and kill them. Like a spider in a web.” 

Romana seemed to take this into consideration. She put a hand on her hip and shifted her weight. “Geralt?”

“Yes?” 

“We believe in goodness and healing. It’s what my family has, for generations, worked to do for everyone and everything we cross paths with.” She paused. “That being said, witcher, we are also Skelligers. I hope you do not find me crude when I ask if you know how to kill these dirty bitches?”

Geralt nodded. “I do.” Romana stepped closer. Despite being significantly shorter, she seemed to tower over him. She grabbed a strap of his armor and pulled him down to her height. 

“Then you listen to me, Geralt, and you listen good.” He nodded, eyebrows raised. “You find the sordid, nasty monster lady who did this to my boy, and you make her  _ pay _ , you hear me?” Geralt nodded again. 

“Yes. I hear you.” She let him go, using her hands to straighten out his armor. 

“Come with me.” She led him into the kitchen once more. Fionna padded behind him, both her and her mother barefoot. Romana opened a cabinet. Carefully, she pulled out a false back to the cabinet. Geralt tilted his head, watching. 

“Woah! We have a secret cabinet?” Fionna smiled in the excited way one does when they’ve been let in on the thrill of a secret. Romana scoffed. 

“Tell me, Geralt. Have you heard of a little potion,” She began, rummaging around in the cabinet, the sound of tiny glass jars tinkling together as she searched. “Called Cat?” Romana said, turning to face him. In her hand, she had three, small jars of a greenish gray potion. 

“Yes, I have. I also happen to know it’s lethal to anyone who isn’t like me… who isn’t a witcher.” He tilted his head. “So why do you have it?” She put her hand on her hip and tilted her own head at him, eyebrows raised. A teasing smile graced her lips as she seemed to be waiting for him to figure it out. “You dreamt of it?”

“Aye.” She held the jars out once again. “I didn’t know what it was first. I just saw flashes… The berbercane bush out back. My husband’s old aged bottle of dwarven spirit. Then, I’ll have you know, the last of my water essence. I’ll have to make a day trip to an herbalist soon.” 

“Still, the fact you could figure it out…”

Romana huffed. “Geralt, look around this kitchen. Do I seem inexperienced to you?” She paused before laughing. 

“Alright, alright. I was planning to brew some before I go out hunting tonight.” He couldn’t help but smile lightly. She was a bit more than a simple herb witch she seemed to be. This would save him some valuable time. She held the bottles out to him. He attempted to grab them, but she held on. 

“Destroy her, Geralt. She has destroyed too many of our sons.” He nodded and she let the bottles go. He slipped them into his pocket. 

“I will head back to the inn to prepare, and I will be out by the time the sun goes down. I  _ will  _ find her.” 

“Good. Off with you now. Avenge my boy. Make me proud, witcher.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you guys know you can follow me on tumblr @ goblinhourz !
> 
> As always, a special thank you to my extra sets of eyes who help me every step of the way. Thank you Pryce (@ nonbinary-minecraft on tumblr) for your grammar/spelling help, thank you Lys for your dope knowledge on Norse mythology, and last but not least, thank you Tristo for being totally awesome and picking apart my stories. I am better because of you guys. All my love. 
> 
> And thank you to my readers! Please feel free to comment below, I answer every comment and I love hearing from ya'll. 
> 
> This was my favorite chapter to write yet, and I hope ya'll enjoyed it. Get ready for some real action in the next chapter !


	5. Of Grottos and Screams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt knows what he's dealing with now. Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAA! THE LONG AWAITED NEXT CHAPTER HAS FINALLY ARRIVED! Quick TW for descriptions of fighting with the Bruxa (duh), but also for brief bursts of body horror typical of fighting a monster. It's not too extreme, but even so, ya'll get a heads up.

Geralt always found peace in the planning; having a job to do was a source of comfort for the witcher. It was a messy job, a thankless job, a job more often than not filled with injury and loss. Years of experience taught him that. If he could-- if only slightly-- make a dent in the harm, he would. That’s why he reveled in preparation, when he had time to do as much as he could to ensure a swift defeat of monstrous foes. Geralt made his way from the oneiromancers’ cottage back to the inn. He had to prepare, as he was losing daylight. He  _ hated _ not having enough time to prepare, it made him jittery and left him wound too tightly. Best to get it done tonight, he thought. Gather the potions, ready the blade, and ambush the creature before it wakes up. The grotto shouldn’t be too hard to find, as it was likely at the end of the creek he’d noted earlier.

Geralt shouldered his way through the door of the inn, scanning the room. He didn’t hesitate by the door, there was too much to do. Jaskier, always one to prefer the center of attention, called out to him from the middle of a group of townsfolk.

“There he is now, our brave hero!” The men and women surrounding him exclaimed various affirmations as well, holding their pints and goblets his way for a moment to show respect. 

“Toss a coin to your witcher,” One man slurred off key before slipping off his stool. Late afternoon, and the room was already drinking hard, likely matching the levity Jaskier brought to the room. Geralt’s purposeful walk stuttered for a moment. Keeping the townsfolk busy was something he was grateful Jaskier managed, but it always gave him pause. Mess up the job now, and he wouldn’t just have angry people to face, but angry drunks. He huffed softly through his nose and kept walking, offering them a nod and a forced half smile before meeting Gilfred at the counter. 

“What room did you put us in?” 

The alderman raised his eyebrows. “Do you know what it is? Do you know what killed my-- our boys?” Geralt nodded once, controlled. 

“Room?” He echoed himself, no longer as appreciative of the golden sun light he could see out the window. It meant he was wasting time. Gilfred’s mouth turned down on one side, and Geralt knew it meant he was being rude. He sighed quietly, planning out how to politely ask for the damned key already when a hand clasped around his shoulder, squeezing. He startled at the contact before the scent of lavender met his nose. The pressure of Jaskier’s hand on his shoulder momentarily cleared his mind. 

“Let’s remember our manners, my dear witcher,” Jaskier said, feigning a scolding tone. He let his hand drop from Geralt’s shoulder, still pressed to his side. The closeness was something Geralt was still getting used to. “You’ll have to forgive him, Gilfred. He’s incorrigible when he’s caught the scent of a monster, I’m afraid.” Jaskier laughed, and it sounded like music. Geralt made himself smile in a way he hoped was apologetic. This was all second nature to the bard, he knew just how to sweet talk his way out of almost any situation, occasionally to a fault. Jaskier’s hand slid to Geralt’s wrist, pulling on it. “Come, I’ll show you.” He turned on his heel, taking off toward one of the halls. Geralt followed. 

“Did you--”

“Bring the bags in? Come on Geralt, what is it, my first day?” Jaskier rolled his eyes, stopping at the third door down. He pulled a key from his pocket and twisted it in the lock, pushing the door open. He was humming under his breath, Geralt noticed. But that was Jaskier, a perpetual state of song. The two walked in. The room was small, and it had the bare minimum. A bath, a bed, and a table to spread out whatever gear may be necessary. Geralt made a beeline to the table, opening the chest he kept his wares in. 

“So, do we know what we’re dealing with here? I take it we must, given how driven you are,” Jaskier remarked.

Gingerly, Geralt removed two small glass bottles, cool to the touch, and slipped them in his pocket with the Cat potion Ramona had given him. He really hoped he wouldn’t end up needing that, as he hoped to get to the grotto before sunset. But, as he pocketed the potions, he caught sight of orange light through the tiny window in their room. 

“Fuck,” He cursed, quietly. He pulled the silver sword off his back, giving it a once over. He reached into his bag and pulled out a larger glass bottle filled with a deep fuschia oil and a small sheet of cotton. Quickly, he opened the bottle and dumped it on the rag and began to oil the blade as fast as he could without injuring himself.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked, tone becoming less one of airy excitement, and more so one of concern as he watched the witcher return the sword to the sheath. Geralt scowled as he looked at the ingredients for a bomb that would be really helpful. It would take too long to make a new one. He should’ve replaced it when he last used it. Stupid. 

“...Geralt.” 

“No time,” Geralt snapped, gruffly. He checked the band holding back the top half of his hair, pulling it tighter. He would need all the sight he could get. 

“What do you mean, no time?” 

Geralt hummed quietly, acknowledging he’d heard Jaskier but too focused on preparation to say anything back. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier tried again. 

The patience in his voice made Geralt feel guilty, in the back of his mind. But even so, there was work to be done. 

“I meant, no time. What the hell else?” Geralt huffed, turning toward the door. Now, or he would have to wait until tomorrow. 

“I know this is important to you, but it’s no reason to be rude. Can’t it wait? You haven’t eaten in hours. What’s more, don’t you typically like to meditate before..?” He trailed off, never keen to go into details on the slaughters his counterpart would commit. Jaskier closed the oil, carefully putting it back in its place. 

Geralt stopped, turning quickly back to Jaskier. The bard was right, and he didn’t mean to be hostile, he really didn’t. “Sorry. I-- If I wait, I have to wait until tomorrow. It’s Bruxae,” He attempted to explain. His tone was stuttered and stiff. Words were hard when, internally, every part of him was focused on another task. Jaskier’s eyebrows knitted themselves together, his perpetual look when he was concerned and stressed at the same time. He really did want to keep up with Geralt, but he hadn’t quite memorized the bestiary. 

“That’s...vampires?”

A nod from Geralt. Jaskier nodded, reaching into his own bag to fish something out. 

“Okay, and you’re worried they’ll get someone else if you don’t stop them tonight?” He glanced up at Geralt through his fringe, watching him nod again, some tension loosening in his jaw. He was relieved Jaskier was filling in the blanks. “So, I assume your goal was to get a jump on them before they flap out of whatever horrible cave they live in for the night.” 

“Grotto,” Geralt corrected. 

“I see.” Jaskier’s hand closed around a fist sized, cloth covered item and pulled it out. “Here,” He said, holding the bundle out to Geralt.

“Hmm?” 

“Sweet bread,” Jaskier admitted, smiling. “Nabbed it from the last rat hole we stayed in. Eat it, _please_. You can do it on the way, but you need energy, darling.” The pet name made something flutter in Geralt’s stomach and he accepted the bundle. Jaskier was right, and Geralt was filled with appreciation for the man. Sometimes, he forgot his body had basic needs. Especially when he found himself caught in his own tunnel vision. But the sustenance would do him good. He nodded in appreciation. 

“Thank you,” He said softly, before turning to the door and opening it. 

“Be safe,” Jaskier said, just barely a whisper, tone just a bit too worried for Geralt’s liking. He didn’t like the idea that he was scaring Jaskier. He didn’t deserve that. Nonetheless, it had to happen. Someone had to do it, or the town would run out of sons. Geralt burst out the front door of the inn, looping around the back in a jog to where the creek was. The sky was a mix of oranges and goldenrod yellows, as the sun was going down. Hopefully, even if he got there just after dark, the beast may still be groggy and he would be able to get the jump on it. 

Geralt cut through the edge of the wood, following the creek. In the slight distance, he could hear water rushing, louder. A waterfall, likely by the grotto. A sound like that would be relaxing any other time. While jogging, he unwrapped the bun from Jaskier. He tucked the cloth in his pocket, swearing in his head to bring it back untarnished. One bruxa shouldn’t be too much of a challenge, especially not one feeding as much as this one. Surely, she would be slowed, maybe even old. Geralt ate the whole thing in three bites, enjoying the sweet taste but not having the time to really savor it. It was sweet and moist, and went down quick. He was thankful enough for that. It should make the bitter potions go down easier. 

Soon enough, he spotted a large hill. The waterfall and furthermore, the grotto must be on the other side. The sound of rushing water was louder now. Geralt slowed his pace. The sunlight was fading now, as it could barely permeate the cover of trees. The sky above was pale, purple around the edges. It was twilight. On nearly silent footsteps, Geralt approached the grotto. He pressed himself to one side of the hill, so as to hopefully avoid being spotted, should the creature come flying out. With Bruxae, he was never sure how he would find them, as the resting position seemed to vary between the creatures. He’d fought them entirely in bat form, but also in their gastly, womanly form. He stepped on a twig, and internally cursed the crack of it. In the distance, he heard some birds take off from a tree, likely startled by the noise. 

He also heard stirring from within the grotto.

There goes the element of surprise he had been hoping for. His approach had to shift from one of stealth to one of full engagement, to really threaten the creature so it chose fight instead of flight. Reaching behind his head, his hand clasped the handle of his silver sword. He pulled it from the sheath as quietly as he could manage. With his enhanced senses, he could hear the faint whistle of the metal nonetheless. If he could, he was sure the bruxa could. The stillness in the Grotto confirmed it, the beast was listening.

Breathe in. 

Breathe out. 

Go. 

Geralt barreled around the corner, hurling himself through the waterfall into the small cave. A gasp, loud and sharp. Female form, then. Geralt raised the blade, striking down hard and fast. Nothing but air. The beast had scrambled to the side, back up against the wall, but would have freedom from the side if she should lunge for it. He raised the sword again, intent to finish this before he needed potions. 

“So, it’s true!” Cried the bruxa. His swing wavered. “A witcher has come to finish me! I should’ve believed it, going from the smell,” She snarled on the last word and lurched out of the cave. Geralt cursed himself for letting her distract him and followed behind quickly. The curtain of water wet his hair, with water droplets spilling down his forehead and neck. He looked for her quickly, left and right, but she was nowhere to be seen. Slowly and deadly silent, he walked out of the grotto and scanned the perimeter. Sickly but somehow sweet at the same time, he heard the cryptic melody inside his own head, the one used to lure countless men before him to their deaths. Geralt snarled, and was met with cruel laughter. 

His eyes shot to the top of the grotto, where the creature perched. She was completely naked, legs crossed. Long, dark red nails tapped the stone she perched on. “Should’ve known my beautiful voice wouldn’t work on a freak, such as yourself!” She laughed harder, tossing her long, greasy hair over one shoulder. She was disturbing to look upon, skin off-puttingly translucent, blue and black veins visible beneath the surface. With her head tossed back laughing, Geralt could see her neck and breasts, covered in crusty, cracking rust colored filth--dried blood. While she was distracted, he lunged to the left, hand swiftly casting the sign of Aard to blow her off the grotto’s top. She screamed, shrill and impossibly loud as she thumped to the ground on the far side. 

Frantically, she tried to correct herself on the ground, whirling around to see Geralt. “Your shitty songs don’t work on me,” He said, gruffly, lunging toward her to strike again. She rolled out of the way at the last second and he cursed, refusing to let her throw him off his rhythm. She threw herself to her feet, face crumpled in fury. He prepared his blade, knowing she wouldn’t try to hit him. He watched closely, waiting to see the curl of her lips as she opened her mouth. The screams were what he really needed to be wary of. The second he saw her dark lips twitch, he conjured the sign of Quen, a shield. Her horrible scream was impossibly loud, ear piercing. He winced, wishing he had a free hand to cover even one ear. 

“A trick!” She screeched when he was not blown back ten feet through the air. “I’d heard of these witcher tricks, but never had the privilege of seeing it myself!” She cackled, evidently deranged. “No matter!” The bruxa leapt up, fifteen feet in the air as she glided behind Geralt. He turned, sword ready to strike, and charged her. She gasped, surprised at his reflexes. He swung the blade but she dodged. It sliced her arm, deep. Her blood spilled out, a sickening blackish red. She cried out, hand clapping over the wound and investigating the severity. The oil would lead to it being lethal eventually no matter what, but Geralt hated to leave work unfinished. He wound up to hit her again, a finishing blow, and her head snapped in his direction. 

She screamed again, and he wasn’t ready. He flew back, body slamming down on the ground and skidding several feet on the pine needles. Geralt winced, hand fluttering to his pocket. Luckily, the jars hadn’t broken. He sat up quickly, head spinning violently. Geralt’s side ached, and he suspected it would bruise. He forced himself to his feet. The bruxa was nowhere in immediate sight. It was almost completely dark. But with just one vial of Cat, he elected to wait to take it. His strong vision already gave him a leg up. He sniffed the air laced with the moldy, coin like scent of her blood. She couldn’t have gotten far. He noted her blood trail led to a tree, and she was perched on a high branch. 

He watched her rub a hand on her wound which was leaking blood around her skinny, bony fingers. That’s when he noticed she looked confused. She hadn’t noticed him coming up, her head swiveling from left to right, as if looking for something. Perhaps she was delirious from blood loss? Geralt didn’t have time to care. While she was looking off to the distance, he shoved a hand to his pocket and pulled out a vial of Swallow, pulling out the small cork and knocking it back. Nearly instantaneously, he felt the ache on his side unstitch itself to a point where it still hurt, but wouldn’t slow him down. He was lucky enough she hadn’t blinded him. 

He cast Aard when he saw her let go of the branch for a moment to tend to the wound and she tumbled out of the tree. With a fall from that height, the smack of her body on the ground was sickening. Monster or not, she had the wind knocked out of her lungs, the ideal with a Bruxa. With no air, she can’t scream. Geralt jogged over, raising his sword over her chest. She struggled to raise herself up on her elbows, coughing. Her leg was twisted in an unnatural spiral, bone cracked and tearing through the surface of her shin. Her head tilted to the right, looking around his side. Right as he was about to jam the blade between her ribs, he noticed a sickly smile quirk the edges of her lips as she laid back, accepting defeat. 

Geralt didn’t hesitate, taking the shot. First, the crack, then the wet twisting noise. And he yanked the sword out. 

“No! Filthy freak of nature, what have you  _ done _ ?” A shrill voice called from behind him. Geralt spun around, taken off guard. He inhaled quickly through the nose. Bruxae. 

Three more. 

_ Shit.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, how is Geralt going to get out of this one? Tune in for the next chapter to find out! I'm sure some of y'all are here for the hurt/comfort ship bizz...It's coming! I promise. I'm going to try to get this on a regular schedule now that I'm adjusting to living somewhere new. Keep in mind tho: I am a full time college student which is... A lot at times! 
> 
> Thank you so much to my lovely readers. I appreciate every one of you! Bonus points if you stuck around through my INSANELY LONG hiatus lol. Con/crit is welcome and appreciated. I read every comment so I will 100% answer you!! 
> 
> Thank you to my beta readers! You can follow [Jayden](https://actually-neurodivergent.tumblr.com) here, [Tater](https://tater-titan.tumblr.com) here, and last but NOT least, my bff [Pryce](https://nonbinary-minecraft.tumblr.com) here! 
> 
> Want to follow me somewhere else? You can find me on [tumblr](https://kelpcore.tumblr.com) and [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/kelpcore/) under the same user (kelpcore)! See ya'll in the notes of the next chapter!


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